Highway Robbery

A rusty, blue Cadillac came around the blind corner spitting and wheezing. It stopped a few feet from where a sloth sat on his haunches holding up a Stop sign, a ratty tam tilted on his head, making it look like the animal had Devil horns.

“Good afternoon…um…whatever you are,” the heavyset driver said, while cranking down the window. He looked around at the fall trees dressed in various shades of red and yellow and green, took a hankie out, and wiped his brow. “Gets pretty humid here.”

“Yes, sir,” the sloth replied. “It’ll be better once winter arrives.”

“Do you have a name?” the driver asked.

“Flash.”

“Flash? But aren’t you a…um…?”

“Sloth. And proud of it,” Flash said. 

“Well, I better be going. I’m already late for a business retreat.”

“Nice meeting you,” Flash replied. “That’ll be $98.38.”

“Say what?” 

“This is a toll road. You have to pay to use it.”

“That’s highway robbery.”

“More like country road robbery.” the sloth said, straight-faced.

“Well, I’m not paying.”

“Before you go, there’s something you need to know.” Flash lowered the sign and pointed to the front of the vehicle. “While you and I were chatting, Miranda, my wife, cuddled up against a front tire for a nap. My son Junior did the same in the back.” Flash held out his hands, palms up and hunched his shoulders. “You wouldn’t want to deprive a son of his mother, or a mother her child.”

“I don’t have that much cash on me.”

“We also take credit and bank transfers.”

“Oh, all right,” the man said, a scowl outlining his face. He took out his wallet and handed over five twenties. “Keep the change,” the man said, giving Flash the finger.

Flash smiled in return and waved goodbye.

Later, Miranda rested her head against Flash's shoulder. “You know how I get horny when you score like that.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Maybe you could send Junior on an errand,” she said, a finger meandering lazily down his torso.

“Junior,” Flash yelled. “I need you to run an errand.”

—-

This is my second Flash story. You can read the first one at https://www.spankthecarp.com/issue81_harrington.html.

The One

First published in Free Flash Fiction.

I watch the two of you stroll hand-in-hand around the man-made lake in the center of the park, smiling, laughing, ignoring me. Perfect.

The water in the lake is murky due to last night’s heavy rain. The family of mallards swimming military style don’t appear to care. They make lousy witnesses, anyway.

Thanks to a friendly neighbor in your apartment building, I know your name is Carol. His name doesn’t matter. Does it.

You approach a bench with a seat-back advertisement for Siegfried’s Amusement Park. I wonder if you’ve ever been there. I close my eyes and watch what’s-his-face fall from the top of the Ferris wheel. You look over the edge and scream with him, as do the others watching on. Well, except me.

You point a manicured finger across the lake in my direction. I know it’s manicured. I watched the sandy-haired blonde in the mall kiosk do it. Do you know they closed the mall? It’s going to be a roller skating rink. I wonder if you know how to skate. You do? Perfect.

I wave and smile, binoculars covering my face. You tap who’s it on the shoulder and say something. He holds a hand over his brow and looks my way. He removes his phone and pokes at it. Is he calling 911? I’ll be long gone before the cavalry arrives.

But I’ll be back.

‘Cause you’re Perfect.

In Pursuit

First published in Suddenly and Without Warning (12/2/24)

Robert looked up as the doors closed on the northbound commuter train. He gasped when he recognized a familiar face. Vivian, his wife of twelve years, stood on the platform wearing her favorite red coat. *It can’t be,* he thought. *She disappeared eight months ago*.

He pounded on a window to get her attention, but she kept moving farther away. He reached for the emergency stop cable, missed, and fell. By the time he recovered his balance, it was too late. Too late to stop the train. Too late for him to confront his wife. 

Still shaking, Robert exited the train at the next stop. He looked around like a man lost in the desert. He sped toward the escalator and saw a flash of red near the top. Pushing his way up the crowded stairway to a chorus of jeers, he reached the apex just as Vivian rounded another corner and out of view.

He maneuvered the intersection at top speed, looked ahead, and realized where she was going, St. Patrick’s Presbyterian Church, where they were married. He bolted toward the front steps and saw the wind-blown hem of her coat leading him to the cemetery in back. She stood over a stone, her head bowed.

As Robert neared, he stuck out his hand and grabbed air. There was no one there. 

Exhausted, he sat on a stone bench and looked down at the inscription on the grave facing him.

Robert Lewis Stevens — 1962-1994

Vivian Agustus Stevens — 1964-

Our Song

I was supposed to be home talking things over with Rosie, her idea, not mine. 

I reminded her the band had a last-minute practice for the wedding reception on Saturday. We needed to learn two songs the bride requested at the last minute. Rosie sighed and said we’d talk when I got home. The stern look on her face told me she was serious.

The other three were already setup when I arrived for rehearsal. I lifted my guitar out of its case, plugged it in, strummed a few chords, and nodded. I was ready to go. 

We played a song we knew to get in the mood. We did this at the beginning of every practice. Still, I couldn’t shake the angst I felt about the conversation with my wife. She hadn’t said what she wanted to discuss, but I had a good idea. She told me often enough I was out of the house too much, and when I was there, I spent more time with the TV than her. She was lonely and felt abandoned.

She was right. I worked fifty hours most weeks and spent weekends providing music for a variety of events.

“Charlie, you with us?” Brian, the band’s leader and drummer said. 

I nodded. “Sorry, Rosie and I are . . .Never mind. I’m good,” I said, forcing a smile.

The first new song was “You Are the Sunshine of My Life” by Stevie Wonder. We all knew the song, but had never played it as a group. We picked it up with ease and moved on. I switched to the second song and found “Bridge Over Troubled Water,” by Simon and Garfunkel. I felt a tightness in my shoulders and the fingers of my left hand went numb. It was the song Rosie and I danced to at our wedding thirty-two years ago. 

Brian gave a count off, and the band began the intro. All of them except me. I stood, stiff, like a wax figurine at Madame Tussauds’. “Charlie, you sure you’re okay?” Brian asked.

I put the guitar in its case and waved as I walked toward the door. Perhaps it was time to have that talk with Rosie. “I’ll see you Saturday,” I said.

***

I smelled the popcorn before stepping into a short hallway leading to the living room on one side and dining room on the other. It was her comfort food, she told me. She ate it when she was upset, mostly with me.

Rosie sat on a worn sofa watching a comedy on the TV. She wasn’t laughing. “You’re home early,” she said, without looking my way. “Did they kick you out?”

“No, they didn’t kick me out,” I said, bile rising in my throat. She had that effect on my too often lately. “Why would you ask me that?”

“You know why.”

“I don’t have a clue.” I waited for her to munch on another handful of popcorn while attempting to keep my heart rate at a reasonable level.

“You want a clue?” She said, looking at me for the first time. “I’ll give you a clue.” She stood and marched over near where I stood, her face as red as a sunset on a hot summer evening. “How many times have you banged her?”

“What are you talking about?” I lost the battle to keep calm and stepped closer. “Banged who?”

“That new singer. Melody.”

“Her name is Melanie, and I’ve never touched her.”

“Lying won’t help you. Ever since she joined the band, you’ve been out later and later.”

“She had to learn our entire repertoire. You forgot her predecessor left with little notice when her husband was transferred to somewhere in New Mexico.” I took a deep breath and wished I had a beer, even though Rosie and I gave up drinking and smoking years ago. “Between work and practicing three nights a week, I’ve been too tired to have an affair with someone half my age.”

Rosie sat on the back of the couch, looked down, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “I guess that’s why you haven’t had much time for me either.”

“No, I haven’t, and I’m sorry about that.” I pulled her to a standing position and took her in my arms. “Give me a week or two, and I’ll be all yours.”

“All mine?” she asked.

“Well, mostly yours.” I smiled, and Rosie smiled back.

That weekend I told Brian I was leaving the band. I offered to play through the end of the month. He said it wasn’t necessary. He had a replacement ready to go. I looked him in the eyes and took a few deep breaths. If I weren’t a pacifist, I’d have shoved him into his drum kit, hoping for the worst.

I haven’t played the guitar since that night. I’m sure I will sometime. Rosie and I have patched things up an are enjoying our expanded time together. “Especially the banging,” Rosie says, while crunching on some leftover popcorn. It seems popcorn is even better than a cigarette after sex.

“No, I haven’t, and I’m sorry about that.” I pulled her to a standing position and took her in my arms. “Give me a week or two, and I’ll be all yours.”

“All mine?” she asked.

“Well, mostly yours.” I smiled, and Rosie smiled back.

That weekend I told Brian I was leaving the band. I offered to play through the end of the month. He said it wasn’t necessary. He had a replacement ready to go. I looked him in the eyes and took a few deep breaths. If I weren’t a pacifist, I’d have shoved him into his drum kit, hoping for the worst.

I haven’t played the guitar since that night. I’m sure I will sometime. Rosie and I have patched things up an are enjoying our expanded time together. “Especially the banging,” Rosie says, while crunching on some leftover popcorn. It seems popcorn is even better than a cigarette after sex.

A Child is Born

I exited the Quick Stop sipping an orange Slurpee and found her in the back seat of my ten-year-old Camry. I didn’t know who she was, or why she chose my car. I did know she was about to have a baby, based on the size of her belly and the sounds emanating from her gaped mouth.

I called Mom to let her know I’d be late for Christmas Eve dinner. She thought I was pranking her when I explained why.

I agreed to drive the intruder to the hospital. It wasn’t far.

Traffic came to a halt when we were three blocks away. The honking due to an accident at the intersection ahead told me the hospital might as well be three miles away. 

“At least my water broke before I got in the car.”

“Your what what?” I felt light-headed.

I considered driving down the sidewalk, but there were too many holiday shoppers. I might hit someone paying more attention to their phone than where they were walking.

A scream from inside the car obliterated all the other sounds. I peeked over my shoulder. She was lying on the seat, knees up, legs spread, skirt bunched against her waist. “It’s coming,” she said.

“N-O-O-O,” I responded. I wanted to run, but my legs wouldn’t let me.

I looked around. “Help. She’s having a baby!” Everyone stared straight ahead. “She’s your wife,” a cabbie missing a front tooth yelled. “Man up.”

“She isn’t. I don’t — “

A second scream interrupted me. 

“It’s coming now. Get in here.”

A young woman walked by with peacock strides. My fingers formed a church steeple. She gave me the finger.

I opened the car door. Noticed she was not a natural blond. Averted my eyes.

“Oh, come on. You’ve seen a — um — you know before.”

Actually, this was my first. 

“Okay,” I said,” just breathe. . .or relax. . .or whatever it is you’re supposed to do.”

“I am, you idiot. Now get your hands in there and get ready.”

I put my hands between her legs and closed my eyes. After two more grunts and three screams, I felt something wet in my hands. I looked down and saw a baby boy curled up in my fingers. 

“I thought it took longer to have a baby.” I said.

”This is my fourth trip to the hospital. Don’t ask.” 

“In the movies, they spank a newborn to get its motor started. Right?” 

She nodded. I slapped the boy lightly, afraid I might hurt him.

“Harder,” she yelled. 

I did as I was told, and the kid started crying. The sound reminded me of an opera my mother dragged me to once. Just as I thought I might throw up, a team of paramedics arrived having run from the hospital. I wondered if Peacock Lady was responsible for their timely arrival.

“What’s your name, Cowboy?” the new mother asked.

“Joseph. What’s yours?”

“Mary, 

Laughing, I asked. “What do you think we should name the baby?”